


Multifarious and Sundry: A Jazz x Prowl Shortfic Collection

by Tentaculiferous



Series: Prowl x Jazz 10th Anniversary Challenge Fics [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Adultery, Bathtub Sex (Subverted), Break Up, Breeding, Cannibalism, Cheating, Double Pregnancy, Eggpreg, False Accusations, Gossip, Heartbreak, Infidelity, Lies, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Other, Oviposition, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, ProwlxJazz10thAnniversary, Rumors, Secrets, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-04 17:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tentaculiferous/pseuds/Tentaculiferous
Summary: A collection of the shorter fills for my Prowl x Jazz 10th Anniversary Bingo Card. Each chapter is a stand-alone fic unconnected to the other chapters.  Expect word counts per fic between 300-1000 words in range.





	1. For the Greater Good

It was for the greater good, he'd said. Those were the words that had tumbled so passionately from Prowl's lips. 

Jazz was a snoop. A spy by profession, but also one by nature. Even before he'd joined the Autobots, his natural curiosity had led him to dig out secrets, to linger when walking by to catch a few interesting tidbits of hushed conversation, to flip through classified folders that had been carelessly secured, to try his processor against some of the trickiest encryptions. He'd always loved the saying "Curiosity killed the cybercat, but satisfaction brought it back." because his blue optics had happened upon many satisfying secrets that left him looking like the cybercat that got the cryo-canary. 

But now, lying on Blaster's couch with his comms off and a communications dampener next to him that he carried with him religiously, he wished he hadn't looked, for once. Wish'd he'd been a common sense mech for once, following all the laws, the rules and regulations, unless he had a good reason not to. Wish he'd developed the habit of tamping down on his curiosity, of respecting boundaries, of leaving stones unturned. 

Decepti-bomb. What a disgusting—and accurate—word. It felt exactly like he'd had a bomb dropped on him, one forged with deceit and lies. How that mech could look him in the eye, smile so innocently and kiss his faceplates, and then head off to plot the murder of thousands of innocent civilians, was beyond him. 

Jazz did terrible things. But he didn't _lie_ about the nature of his work to his partner and closest friends. For obvious reasons, he couldn't share the details, but no one thought he was some squeaky-clean law-and-order-loving pencil-pusher. Prowl had always acted like the Autobot Code was his one and only God.

It made Jazz's fuel tank churn, to know that Prowl had been kissing him, sleeping with him, living and loving with him, while putting on such a fake, sanctimonious air. And Jazz had fell for it! 

Never again, he thought, clutching the communications dampener tightly. He never wanted to hear another word from those lying lips, still acting pious and upright, as if _Jazz_ were the insane one, to criticize Prowl's "clearly necessary actions". Tomorrow he would go to Optimus. He wouldn't tell him the disgusting truths he'd discovered—Optimus would never stand for Prowl's actions, and the Autobots needed Prowl—but to request a transfer to Prime's own unit. Which unfortunately, sometimes included Prowl, but at least he wouldn't be reporting to a mech whose faceplates he wanted to spit on.


	2. Sex in the Shower/Tub

The hand that snakes down to rub at Prowl's modesty panel is confident and sure, stroking at the seams like its done this a thousand times before. And it has, so its owner has little reason to believe it will be rejected. But there's a first time for everything. Prowl, who had been leaning back against the sides of the tub, enjoying the feel of warm oil seeping into his joints, snapped back into alertness and grabbed Jazz's hand, pulling it up.

"Wha—! Prowler, what gives?" Jazz yelped.

"Jazz, we are in a bath tub." Prowl explained. 

"That didn't stop you from kissing me and getting me all worked up." Jazz grumbled. 

"Kissing is fine. Interfacing is not." Prowl said.

"Why not?" Jazz asked, mystified. Before Prowl, he'd had plenty of delicious romps in shower rooms and hot action in oil pools and soaking tubs. 

"It is unhygienic and a health risk. Interfacing equipment is supposed to be cleaned only with gentle solvents, not hot oil."

"It's never made me sick before, and I've done it lots of times." Jazz said, winking.

"Yes, I do love hearing about all the mechs you interfaced with before me." Prowl said dryly.

"That wasn't my point...you seriously won't let me get any action in the tub?" Jazz whined.

"Correct." Prowl answered, leaning back once more. 

"What about the washracks?" Jazz asked.

"The washracks would be fine, so long as the spray is set to solvent." Prowl said, shuttering his optics. 

"So I guess we're gonna need to shower after this soak, to get the oil off, right?" Jazz asked.

"...Yes." Prowl said.

"Well look at the time! Didn't you say you had a whole pile of datapads to get to? Can't leave those reports waiting." Jazz said brightly. 

"Jazz." Prowl said.

"Yes, Prowler dear?" 

"Sit down and enjoy the bath." Prowl said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to all who like tub/shower sex, it's a squick for me, so I filled the prompt without any actual sex taking place, lmao.


	3. Never Say Never/Change Your Mind

Prowl did not have time for frivolous things. "Frivolous things" was a huge category, encompassing all hobbies, interests, and unnecessary social interaction. Prowl was a mech who lived for his job; what other purpose was there? Primus had given him life to perform a certain function. Everything else was simply a distraction from his true purpose. Hobbies and relationships seemed to him to be almost blasphemous, indicators of a lack of dedication.

He punched in as many hours at the office and investigating as he could, and went home and read forensics publications, reviewing new research and important cases. He refueled, recharged, refueled again, went to work, and repeated the cycle day after day.

When earlier that morning, Barricade, his most persistent pursuer at the precinct, asked him what it would take to get him to go on a date with him, Prowl had replied, in his driest tone, that the Pit could freeze over and he still wouldn't waste his time on such a thing. Fuming, Barricade had called him a stuck-up drone with delusions of sentience. 

Prowl had treated such unprofessionalism with all the disdain and lack of interest it deserved. Now he was headed out of the precinct, all but pushed out with a broom by the Chief, and was headed down the most efficient course to take him to his apartment, where he would indulge in his nightly reading. 

Or that was the plan. When a black and white speedster, tricked out with bright red and blue accents, abruptly cut him off with a merry waggle of his fender, Prowl merely gritted his teeth and drove on at his sedate, fuel-efficient pace. He was a detective now and his time was too valuable to waste chasing minor traffic offenders—even if they were a danger to the public. He forwarded the offending mech's details to the nearest Highway Patrol station and continued on. 

And so his day continued in its regular, never-changing pace, the minor snag in its tidy order almost forgotten. That is, until he took the exit into downtown Praxus, and there, at the very first stoplight he hit, was the lovely looking little speedster. Prowl was not swayed by the sight of that pretty fender, only irritated. He had called in the mech over half a joor ago. Where was the local highway patrol? Sitting on their afts?! He fumed silently. When the light changed to green, and the mech gunned it, breaking the speed limit in less than 5 kliks, Prowl was already switching lanes to come up behind him, lights flashing and sirens shrieking.

Surprisingly, the mech pulled over swiftly into one of the transformation lanes, transforming into mech mode and revealing that his mech form was even lovelier than his sleek alt mode. The mech was actually kind of chubby looking, with audial horns only adding to the cute look. The mech smiled disarmingly at him. 

Prowl was in no mood for games. "License and registration." 

The mech meekly handed over his identi-chip and registration card. According to the chip, Prowl was dealing with one 'Coolsville' of Iacon. 

"Was I going over the speed limit, Officer...Pretty?" the mech asked, his voice coy. 

Prowl was not amused. "It's Detective Prowl. And you were easily going 30mph over the speed limit back there." 

"Aww c'mon, it was only 5 over, at worst."

The mech had a Stanizian accent. Which meant nothing; mechs relocating was not that unusual. What was unusual was that Prowl was running his identity code against the results of his request for extended DMV records, and there was no record of him ever being registered in Staniz. And that was very unusual for a mech with a Stanizian accent. 

"That was at the stoplight. Earlier, on the freeway, you were traveling far more rapidly." Prowl said. 

He was not paying that much attention to the conversation, or the unusually relaxed traffic violator. Usually mechs, even law-abiding ones, were nervous when they were pulled over by an Enforcer. This mech was not. But Prowl had reason to suspect that this was no law-abiding citizen. Prowl was running a visual scan against the database—a process that could be extremely time consuming, taking days--or could finish very quickly, if the officer inputting the information had enough details to narrow down the images for the scan to be matched against. 

Jazz—for that was the mech's real name—with his unusual quad-coloring and his accent giving away his city of origin, had been a match that had taken merely minutes. 

"Are you sure that was me?" the mech asked innocently. 

"You are correct that it wasn't _Coolsville_ back there, Jazz." Prowl said. He reached for his stasis cuffs, his mouth already opening to read the suspect his rights. But Jazz was having none of it. Quicker than lightning, he shifted back into alt mode and sped off. 

Prowl cursed. Of course a criminal of Jazz's caliber wouldn't meekly allow himself to be arrested. The mech's easygoing manner really had put him off guard. Prowl switched into his alt mode and chased after him, tires screeching and engine roaring. 

Without realizing it, he was breaking his life-long vow. For the first time in his life, Prowl was wasting his time on another mech, without getting paid for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Polyhex is the fan-favorite for Jazz's origins, but Staniz is Jazz's home city for IDWverse canon.


	4. Secrets/Sinking Deeper

The lies start out small and unimportant, not really lies at all. 

"Where have you been?" 

"Just hangin' out with some friends." 

And it's true enough. You were hanging out with friends, but in the end you went back with only one, to their quarters, and while you might have been hanging out, that wasn't all you were doing. But a lie of omission is a cyberhorse of a different color, isn't it? It's not really a lie, no false information has been given. 

No guilt is written on your faceplate as you tell this not-lie, nor does your visor give away your deceit by flaring it's colors or shifting its focus away. And why would it? You're a pro. 

Your lover's face is equally undisturbed, but by genuine lack of suspicion rather than practiced artifice. Prowl may seem emotionless to many, but his blank expression is a sign of his usual calm and deep focus. But you, you who know him so well, can see the tells. The subtle lines of stress around his mouth as he frowns, the dullness in the blue optics, the slight drag in the movement of usually responsive doorwings. Prowl has worked himself to exhaustion one again. You can tell that if he stayed alert for much longer, he'd be forced into emergency recharge. 

You can tell this because this is your norm as a couple. Your nights, instead of being spent together cuddling, or laying around joking, kissing or making love, are largely empty. If there are jokes or reassurances, funny stories or heated kisses, they come from other mechs than your bonded. 

It's be with other mechs, or sit in your office or berthroom alone. If you visit Prowl in his office, like you used to do early on when the war just started, hoping to knock out some dull paperwork together and at least be in the same room for a few hours, you'll be shooed out in half a joor, too noisy and playful and "Jazz, you aren't taking this seriously. This needs to be done by the end of the orn." You are a distraction, lowering efficiency and interfering with the Autobot machine. 

You are all just cogs in this machine after all, but sometimes you feel like it's grinding you to dust. It's certainly already done that to your relationship. And hasn't it done enough? 

Your night together begins when you return to your shared berthroom, a few kliks before you know your lover will drag himself in, ready for the bare minimum required hours of recharge needed to run for the rest of the cycle, albeit ragged around the edges and pushed just a hair away from the breaking point. 

You will exchange a few words, a few sentences, questions that might yield answers that would cause concern, if he had any concern to spare for you. Answers that might dredge up more questions that could land you in hot oil, clever and pointed questions that might flay away the secrets that no amount of discretion and clever lies could hide forever, not when so many other mechs are privy to them. Questions that might finally end this never-ending spiral into more lies and secrets, that might save you from this pit of emptiness you're slowly sinking into. 

If only Prowl would spare the time to ask them. 

But no matter how uncharacteristically vague you answer, Prowl never pushes. Even when you say "slag it" and intentionally word some of your answers to pique even the dullest mechs' curiosity, Prowl is satisfied with them. Or perhaps he's just too tired to be curious about anything. 

Either way, this night, like thousands before it, ends the same way. You tell Prowl you were "just hanging out with some friends." and then your lover lays back on your berth, doorwings spread, and you settle down next to him. 

Your optics are heavy, lying there next to him. His arms around you feel so good, the brush of a warm chevron against your helm is heavenly. But at the same time you don't feel anything. Because you are too tired to feel anything. Too tired of being ignored. Too tired of being less important than a datapad. Too tired of being treated this way, like a "how was your night?" or "what have you been up to?" makes up for never being hugged or held or being important enough to set aside one evening a week for. The brush of a chevron is not enough. 

You're not even enough a priority for him to come to the rec room during lunch break. He can't endure the "distraction" for half a joor a day. On a daily basis you survive danger, deadly boring paperwork, the turned back of your lover walking out of the berthroom to his office without so much as a "Good morning, Jazz." You endure the whispers and nasty remarks from the few self-righteous mechs on board, who don't realize your enhanced audios can hear everything said three rooms away. 

And you do it all with a smile on your face, because you are Jazz and that is part of who you are. But keeping up that smile with all this going on is as much work as sitting in an office all cycle slogging through paperwork. And your only reward at the end of a long day is an arm thrown around your waist by a mech who isn't even conscious. 

And the worst part is, you can see it going on like this forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually hate writing 2nd person POV fic (and reading it). But this fic wanted to be written in it for some reason. Maybe to make Jazz more sympathetic/relatable. 
> 
> Almost long enough that I posted it as a stand-alone. Probably my favorite of the fills in this Multifarious collection. Because as much as I love seeing my OTP happy together, I also like seeing them suffer, lol. 
> 
> Any feedback or critique is appreciated :)


	5. In Command

Prowl's voice was lazy and relaxed as Jazz settled over him. The mating instinct tended to affect mechs in different ways, either making them sedate and lethargic, or energetic and aggressive. Which side-effect you got usually determined whether you were the recipient or the giver in these special interfacing sessions. 

It was not just the side-effect that made Prowl so calm, as Jazz's ovipositor slid into his slick, warm valve. Prowl's calmness stemmed from his complete sense of control. Jazz might fill him with eggs, but Prowl was not going to let this be a typical interaction. Once he was full, he had every intention of flipping Jazz over and filling him up as well. The sedative effect wasn't that strong on him, and his ovipositor, unsheathed and lying across his belly, was also tight with unlaid eggs.

Typically, the recipient mech would leave the eggs in his ovipositor alone, and they would be slowly absorbed back into the mech's body, to provide nutrients for the eggs growing inside his gestation chamber. But Prowl did not let anything, not anatomical nature or cultural practices, determine his actions. The Autobot swarm needed more soldiers, and he was damned if he'd let a single clutch go unlaid if it was in his power to make it happen. 

He moaned as Jazz's ovipositor swelled huge inside him, to release a particularly big egg. It was a struggle to not give in, to not slip into the haze of pleasure and listlessness, as his abdomen began to stretch more and more with eggs. Finally, when every last black and white speckled egg had slipped from Jazz's ovipositor, the mech sat back, panting. He was stunned when Prowl also rose, facing him. 

"Sorry Prowl, I'm all out." Jazz said. 

Even if he hadn't been empty, he didn't think he had it in him to go another round of squeezing those damned eggs out through his tube. He was amazed Prowl could get up and move around, when most recipient mechs had faded into unconsciousness by the time their breeding sessions were over. 

"I am not, however." Prowl said, gesturing to his erect ovipositor. 

Jazz arched a brow. "Are you crazy, mech?" then he laughed. "If you want to try it though, I'm all for it. Didn't take you for the kinky type, though." 

"It's not kinky. It is practical." Prowl said. 

"Whatever. So long as I get to be the one lying down this time." Jazz said, lying down on one of the pillows in their nest. He spread his legs as Prowl settled over him, intending to repeat, in reverse, their previous breeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's not kinky, it's practical." is such a _Prowl_ line, lmao.


	6. The Pilot Just Died

Doorwings were hiked up to their maximum height, white fingers were digging into the cheap armrests, and an already-impressive scowl was deepening on the mech's faceplates.

Prowl had resigned himself to not getting any recharge this flight. A cable leading from his wrist was plugged in the seat's charging port, but there was no way his processor could cycle down for defrag with that infernal _noise_ attacking his audials. 

The black and white mech sleeping in the window seat next to him, mumbled, dreaming, and somehow managed to turn the music pouring out of his oversize headphones up even louder. Prowl gritted his denta. This was really too much. 

Mind made up, Prowl reached out and began tapping the snoozing mech on the shoulder. The mech dozed on, and Prowl began tapping harder. Finally, the mech stirred. 

"Mmm?" the mech slurred. "What's up?" 

"Your music. It is preventing me from entering recharge." Prowl said stiffly.

"What? You don't like Polyhexian Polka?" Jazz asked. A hint of mirth lurked underneath his earnest tone. "Where're you from, Praxus?" with that he switched the music pouring from the headphones to a brash Praxian military march. 

"It is the VOLUME that is the problem." Prowl snapped.

"You can't get a good listen to the lyrics? Don't worry, it'll go higher. Lemme turn it up for you, mech." 

Prowl spluttered. "You insufferable--" Jazz cranked the noise up even higher. 

After that, Jazz either couldn't hear him over the music, or was pretending he couldn't. Furious, Prowl turned away, waving over a stewardess to request audial covers.

While he was putting the headphones (audio off) over his own audials (they didn't have proper noise-dampening audial covers) the flight's intercom came to life. 

"The um, pilot, AND the copilot are dead..."the voice said. 

The amount of "oh-slag" looks that were exchanged in the cabin was mitigated only by the fact that so many of the passengers were asleep. Jazz killed his music. Prowl glared at him. 

"Does anyone know how to fly a plane?" the timid voice crackled over the loud speaker. 

"That's my cue." the smarmy black and white mech said to Prowl, winking his visor.

"What? YOU know how to fly a plane?" he asked, disbelieving.

Jazz sidled his way past Prowl's legs. "Yep. Pretty standard elective for younglin's in Staniz. I found it kinda relaxin', so I kept taking classes all the way up to commercial interstellar crafts. Never knew it would come in handy!" 

And with that, the mech breezed his way up towards the cockpit, leaving Prowl gaping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why would Jazz be able to fly a ship? As revealed in the Transformers: Optimus Prime comic, IDW!Jazz's hometown is Staniz--a shipbuilding town. I thought a town like that might have more emphasis on not just shipbuilding, but on piloting and other aspects, in their education system.


	7. False Accusations

Jazz had no idea how rumors had started that Prowl was a cannibal. He knew the rumor mill could come up with some crazy things, but this really took the Chrome cake.

He'd heard the rumors simmering around, but he largely ignored them, amused by the ridiculousness of them. He knew that mechs talked about how Prowl never showed up in the rec room, had never been seen lining up at the Energon dispenser, and had never been seen imbibing anything at all.

Who cared where the mech drank his energon? Jazz knew that there was a private dispenser in Prowl's office that folded back into the wall. Meaning only someone who had been in the office with him when he was using it, would know it was there.

Still, the rumors seemed harmless, and gave the troops something to occupy themselves with. Cannibal Prowl was also a much more interesting idea than the usual rumors of him being a highly specialized drone.

And so Jazz was content to leave things be, letting the rumors of his lover's vampirism and cannibalism run their course.

That was of course, until that fateful night when Red Alert summoned him and Ironhide to the medbay to deal with a "situation". 

"He ate it! That's why you can't find Mirage's arm, Prowl ate it!" Cliffjumper's agitated voice rang through the corridor.

Jazz and Ironhide were rapidly approaching the medbay doors. Ratchet's voice could be heard, exasperated and impatient. "Don't be ridiculous, Cliffjumper. Prowl did not eat Mirage's arm." 

"Then where is it!?" Cliffjumper shrieked hysterically. Ironhide and Jazz exchanged a look, and opened the medbay doors. Like they expected, a one-armed Mirage sat on one of the medbay berths, his face skeptical. Standing near him was an extremely aggravated Cliffjumper ( not that that was an unusual state for Cliffjumper to be in) who was arguing with a scowling Ratchet.

"What makes you think Prowl had anything to do with it?" Ratchet asked.

"Everyone knows he's a cannibal!" Cliffjumper yelled. "I want him arrested for what he did to Mirage's arm!" 

"M'mech," Jazz stepped in, smoothly interceding, "Mirage lost it on the battlefield. These things happen. It can take awhile to find missing parts, especially in a forested area like that. Now, before we go dragging Prowl off in stasis cuffs, why don't we do a good search of the area?" 

Cliffjumper was not soothed. "I know where we'll find it! Wherever that fragging cannibal stashed it! It could be in his subspace! It could be in his quarters! Or it could be buried in the woods outside the Ark, for all we know! Either way, the more time we waste acting like he's innocent, the more of Mirage's arm he can eat!"

At some point during Cliffjumper's tirade, Ironhide had begun to guffaw. Cliffjumper glared at him. Finally when Ironhide had straightened up from where he'd been bent over laughing, he addressed the situation seriously. Wiping the coolant from his optics, he said "We can't arrest a mech with no evidence or anything to suspect him on." 

"Yeah mech. I understand your concern, but let's give it 24 hours to have Hound and Beachcomber search the battlesite for it, then we investigate Prowl. Okay?" Jazz's voice was friendly and even. 

"It doesn't matter whether I'm okay with it or not. You're just going to protect your cannibal boyfriend!" And with that, Cliffjumper stormed out of the medbay.

When, eight hours later, Hound turned up an elegant blue arm lying on a lakeshore near the battle site, Cliffjumper had nothing to say to either Jazz or Prowl. No apology was given. But Jazz knew he would get one eventually, no matter how begrudging it seemed. But either way, he was going to have to have a talk with Prowl about making some appearances in the rec room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, this was a fun one to write :D or rather, dictate, which meant I was sitting in my room yelling Cliffjumper's lines like a lunatic. 
> 
> Me: "YOU'RE JUST COVERING FOR YOUR CANNIBAL BOYFRIEND!"


End file.
